Decision at Fort Drakon
by Zute
Summary: Delia Tabris awakens after the final battle atop Fort Drakon. She's confused, disoriented and she should be dead, but she isn't.


**Decision at Fort Drakon**

She can barely raise that enormous sword, but she does. She takes a few faltering steps toward the dying archdemon; one foot forward, then the other. Everything comes down to this at last. 'Remember me, Zevran,' she thinks. Her feet move faster, then she is running and yells her hatred at the monster that will kill her as she kills it.

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Delia awakes.

Stomach rocking. Nausea. Headache. That smell... the sea. What? It doesn't make sense. She tries to sit up.

"Be still, amore." He is sitting beside her and leans over to kiss her forehead. "You've been unwell."

Strong arms lift her, hold her up, and a glass comes to her lips.

"Drink, mia cara. Drink and sleep."

The cold fluid is sweet and good. It rushes past her dry, cracking lips. She sinks again into oblivion.

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Delia awakes.

Her eyes pop open and images scurry along her optic nerve to her brain. Nothing makes sense.

A small room.

Blink.

A swaying, empty hammock.

Blink.

The door opening and Zevran stepping over the high threshold.

Finally, something familiar that makes sense. Zevran. Someone she thought she would never see again. "Zev?" she whispers. Her small hand gently reaches out to touch him as he draws near. "Am I dead?"

He grasps the hand, small in his hand, but strong and callused. "No, amore. Not dead."

She stares at him, puzzled. "How not? I picked up the sword. I remembering running at the archdemon. It was barely clinging to life. I... I should be dead." She shakes her head. The images do not fall into place.

"Shush, dolce. You are not dead. We are on a ship." He strokes her forehead with his free hand, his other hand still clasping hers. "You must drink more. You need to rest." He disengages his hand from hers and props her up again. Once more, he holds a glass of cold, sweet liquid to her mouth and she sips it greedily.

Her eyes droop again and she sighs and crumples as oblivion claims her.

Zevran strokes her long black hair and tucks a strand behind her pointed ear. "Forgive me, amore. I pray that someday you will forgive me."

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The cycle of confused awakenings and then loss of consciousness continues. Zevran lets her absorb a little more reality each day, carefully, slowly trying to bring her to an understanding. He fears when she finally realizes what happened, he will lose her.

Was it a worse or better way to lose her? That was the dilemma he had wrestled with all the way from Redcliffe to Denerim, but eventually he had decided. He had made a decision that might make him the most hated person in the history of Thedas. Love is ultimately selfish. Isn't that what the sanctimonious crone, Wynne, had told Delia? She was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He had saved her and had damned the rest of the world.

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Delia awakes.

Her eyes fix on his. Zevran. Her memories of where she is, what they are doing come back to her. We are on a ship, fleeing the destruction of everything. We failed. I failed. Alistair is dead, Denerim destroyed, and probably much of Ferelden by now. Her companions, all dead or scattered. The alienage, gone. She had been gravely wounded just as she was about to kill the archdemon and someone else, the wrong person, had killed him. Now the archdemon lived again, reincarnated within another darkspawn, rampaging through Ferelden and destroying even more.

She sits up, rubbing at her eyes, still trying to comprehend all the blanks in her memory and how the information Zevran gave her fills them in. She opens the porthole in their small room and lets the sunshine stream in.

She throws back the covers and checks her legs. They are scarred, yes. All scars she remembers getting. The loose shirt that Zevran put her in the last time she was unconscious, she tugs off. Her arms look no different. Her belly, her chest, they look as they always did. Her hands flutter over her face feeling for something different. There's a small scar down her cheek, but that one is old. She reaches around to her back and gropes, searching for some indication of an injury.

"Amore?" Zevran sits in a chair across the room, where he had been reading, and watches her frantic searching.

"Where is it?" She looks at him, confusion clouding her expression. "What injury?"

"Ah, dolcezza," he says, getting up from his chair to sit next to her. "I fear your injury was to your beautiful head. This is why your memory is so fragmented and why you keep falling asleep."

Her hands skip to her skull and she searches for evidence. There is nothing. No scar, no healing wound, no missing hair, no sore spots.

Zevran crosses to her and clasps her hands in his. "The archdemon threw you very far and you hit your head. I thought you were dead, amore."

She still looks confused so he gathers her in his arms and whispers comforting things to her. "Don't trouble yourself so, dormigliona. We are going far away. This problem will be for someone else now. You and I can start anew, in a place not even the Crows will think to search for us."

She sighs and leans against him. "I just wish I could remember something. I can't believe everything... everyone... is gone." She sobs and buries her head into his chest.

"Non importa, mia cara. We are together, that is what matters." He soothes her, speaking quietly in Antivan, as he has done so many days, during so many awakenings. Eventually she falls into a natural sleep.

He watches her sleep and thinks that perhaps it is time to let her stay awake. She is ready to begin accepting the way things are, or at least what he wants her to believe.

Finally, each day leads to the next. She sleeps when the sun is down and wakes when it comes up again. There is pain. Oh Maker, the pain. She failed. They failed. The devastation that is the result of that failure consumes her. She spends hours at the railing of the ship, watching the ocean and experiencing what feels like an ocean of grief. She is not aware of Zevran watching her, afraid she might try to drown herself along with her grief and guilt.

Perhaps she should go to Orlais, or Antiva, and join the Grey Wardens there. She needs to account for her failure, explain it to them. Zevran argues with her about it. He insists they must go north and then west. Far away from the Blight. They will make a life together. They will find a place where a pair of fugitive elves can live in peace.

They change ships several times, usually only staying in port a day or two. They lie low. He tells her the Crows are plentiful and his face is well-known. Then they're back on another ship. He tries to distract her with stories and, when she is not overwhelmed with despair, lovemaking, but those times are rare and her passion is nearly absent. He talks about a land not far from the Donarks, which is only newly settled. It's a place where shemlen and elves live in peace and equality. She is skeptical, but unwilling to make any decisions, not trusting herself any longer.

After long weeks of traveling at sea. They have to spend time in Rivain, looking for a ship to take them west. Zevran tries to keep her away from people, especially the bustling marketplace, but she is tired of being isolated.

"I'm going out, Zevran. If you are afraid of the Crows, then stay here." She set her jaw in a way that bodes there will be no winning this argument. "I am going!"

"Tesora, cara, mia dea della morte, you win. I will go with you." Zevran has discovered, as many men have, that women must be allowed to win the majority of arguments to ensure a happy union. Besides, she is acting like her old self again. This initiative she is showing is a major improvement. Perhaps they can survive this after all.

The marketplace is thriving. People dressed in colorful fabrics are browsing the stalls. Delia almost glows with satisfaction being in the midst of this chaos. It is the happiest he has seen her in months. He watches her closely, and listens to the conversations swirling around them. There are elves mingling freely with humans. She watches raptly as an elven man tells a shemlen to stuff his wares up his ass and no one rallies around the human to punish the elf. She is fascinated by this place. There are no templars and no clergy chanting on the streets. This place seems like paradise.

"Why don't we stay here, Zev. I like this place."

"Here? Delia... Rivain is full of Crows. Remember Ignacio, that weasel you did some work for? This is where he came from." There is too much gossip and chatter and the topic of many discussions is the Blight to the south. He sweeps her along, not allowing her to overhear the talk.

"Zevran, I wanted to look at the clothes. I could really use something new to wear," she complains as he rushes her along.

"Ah, tesora, I would dress you in the finest silks if I could, but we have little money to spare. I am afraid we will need it for the next leg of our journey." He shakes the money purse on his belt as if to demonstrate. "Come. There is a stand that sells caffè. You must taste it. I think you will like it."

He pulls her by the hand to another part of the market. Here, there are two men loudly discussing the Blight. "Eh, on second thought I don't think you would like it." He pulls her away from the stand.

"Zevran!" Exasperation is building in her voice. "You are acting strangely." She plants her feet, refusing to be pulled away from the caffè stand. "I want to try it."

"Very well, but why don't you wait for me over there, by the fountain. Save me a seat, amore." He points to the fountain where few people are standing.

She nods and waits there for him. Rivain is fascinating. She is amazed at how some elves are well dressed and obviously prosperous. She stares at the people going by and finally someone smiles at her and pauses to talk.

"Buenos días, señora." A handsome elven man stops to talk. "Perdón por intrusos."

Delia smiles at him and shrugs. "I am sorry, I do not understand," she says in the common tongue.

"Ah, forgive me! I merely wished you good day and begged to be forgiven for intruding," he says in the common tongue.

"You're not intruding, ser. I am just waiting," she says politely.

"Ah! Your accent is Ferelden, is it not?" He holds out his hand. "My name is Alvaro. I am from Llomerryn, to the south."

Delia extends her hand, which he kisses, brushing her knuckles with his lips. "I am Delia, from Denerim." She blushes at the gallant gesture.

"Delia from Denerim, that sounds like the start of a poem." His keen interest in her embarrasses her a little. "I am pleased to meet you. Tragic about Denerim, though." He shakes his head sadly. "But you escaped. Praise the gods for that."

Delia nods. "I did." She watches his face a moment. "Tell me, what have you heard, ser? I have been on a ship for..." she realizes she doesn't really know how long they've been on a ship, "a long time. I barely have heard word of what happened." Not entirely true, but all she had heard was from Zevran, and she wanted to know what other people were saying.

"The Grey Wardens in Denerim failed. Although I can hardly blame them, there were only a few left at the end. Of course, it was a long held secret, but now everyone knows. A Grey Warden must be the one to kill the archdemon. It wasn't done that way and so the archdemon reincarnated in the body of another darkspawn." Alvaro shook his head. "Why the Wardens kept this a secret, I can't imagine. It could have prevented this tragedy."

Delia nods. "Everyone knows now?" Then she realizes it sounds strange. "I mean... Oh! A Grey Warden must kill the archdemon?"

Alvaro looks at Delia closely, his curiosity piqued by her response. "Yes, otherwise the archdemon will not stay dead. It is a shame. It was one of our race who killed it. Did you know that? I suppose it is something to be proud of."

"The elven Warden?" Delia asks. "I have heard of her." She is wary of appearing to know too much.

Alvaro shakes his head. "No, if it had been her, the archdemon would be dead and she would be too. The rumor is that it was the elf who traveled with her, an Antivan Crow they say." He sighs. "The story is very romantic, but terrible nonetheless." He pauses watching her face growing pale. "Delia, are you feeling all right?"

"Please continue." She shivers, grasping her arms as if she were cold, even though the sun is hot. The way Alvaro is looking at her, he knows something is not quite right. Perhaps he suspects something.

"The story is the handsome Antivan Crow fell in love with her and knew she planned to sacrifice herself to save Ferelden, but he drugged her before she could make the killing blow and he made it himself. As the tale goes, he fled on a ship, carrying her unconscious form in his arms as Denerim burned behind them." He laughs mirthfully. "Of course the storytellers have embellished them. She, they say, is a beautiful dark-haired elf, rather like you I suppose. He is a pale-haired assassin, with skin as dark as hers is light." He laughs loudly. "Ah, such a beautiful, tragic tale. Don't you think so?"

All the blood rushes from her head and black dots swarm in front of her eyes. She sways on her feet and feels a strong arm wrap around her waist to keep her upright.

Alvaro's eyes sweep from her to the fair-haired elf who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He bows quickly. "I recollect I am expected elsewhere. It was a pleasure to meet you, Delia." He scurries off, looking back at the pair in disbelief.

"Vaffanculo!" Zevran swears at the retreating back of the elf. "Delia?"

She remembers to breathe and looks at him. Did he betray her? Has he been lying to her? "Zevran... did you do it?"

"Shush, tesora, you're still not well." He pulls a flask out from a pocket and hands it to her.

She knows the smell. The sweet, cool drink he gave her telling her she must sleep. "No!" she yells at him. "You did drug me! You lied to me!" Her dark eyes are like coals, glowing with her anger. She pushes away from him, breaks free and runs. Where or from what does she run? From him and the lies he has been telling her, the shameful truth of her survival. She should be dead! She would be dead, but for him. How many times over had he saved her? Yet this time it was a betrayal.

Zevran's instincts kick in. A fleeing target; he can handle this. The best way to track her is from above so he climbs onto a rooftop and follows. He leaps from building to building. This mode of travel is faster. She had crowds to deal with, he only has to find where her running, pushing, and careening into people is disrupting the flow of the crowd. Finally, he gets ahead of her and anticipates her next move. His blowgun is out and a poisoned dart loaded. It is the same as he used when she had charged the archdemon to deliver the coup de grâce. His cheeks puff and he blows. The dart flies true and lands its stinging kiss on the back of her neck. It works rapidly and she stumbles and falls to the ground while the crowd parts around her watching.

He climbs down from the rooftop, unobserved, and makes his way to her. "Please, please make way." He pushes people away that are leaning over her, trying to revive her. "She's my wife. I'll take care of her." He gathers her up in his arms and carries her off as the crowd parts to let them through.

"I'm a doctor, I can help," a man calls out, chasing after Zevran.

Zevran walks on, holding Delia's limp form in his arms. "No. She's fine." He turns and sends a look at him that reminds the doctor of a cobra about to strike.

The doctor stops in his tracks and holds his hands out in front of him, as if to ward off an imminent attack. "As you wish," he mutters, turning quickly and walking even quicker.

Zevran carries her back to their lodgings and settles her limp form into the bed. He needs to be gone for a few hours, but the sedative will wear off before then. He pulls a bottle from his pocket, one he hoped he wouldn't need to use again, and coats a needle with what is inside of it. He pricks her arm with it. His lips settle on hers and he kisses her, praying with his kiss to the long ignored Maker, that she won't leave him.

Maker, fuck it all! He had hoped he could get her far enough away that she would never learn the truth of what he had done. He couldn't lose her to the archdemon and he refuses to lose her now. He ties her wrists and ankles together, in case she awakens before he returns, and stands over her silently begging her for forgiveness. The only clue to his torment is the tenseness at the corners of his eyes and the very slight furrow in his brow. He bends and kisses her. "Perdonami, amore."

He leaves and returns a few hours later. He carries her and their belongings onto yet another ship.

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Delia awakes.

True consciousness comes slowly. How long have I been out? Where am I? As if in answer to her unspoken questions, she recognizes the rocking of a ship, the smell of the sea. Then it all comes back to her and she sits upright in the bed and begins to frantically climb out. Zevran is next to her, and he awakens quickly and grasps her wrist with his hand. His fingers more than wrap around it, it is so narrow.

"No!" she yells and pulls away from him. "You fucking bastard!" Her free hand, her left hand, forms a fist and she smashes it against his jaw. It isn't her primary hand, fortunately, because even with her off-hand, her punch is damned powerful. Zevran only turns his face a little; he takes most of the blow knowing he deserves it and much more. Perhaps it will help.

"Why did you do it, Zev! Do you know how many people will die because you didn't let me kill the archdemon?" Tears are streaming down her face. "What the fuck were you planning on doing? Keeping me away from the truth my entire life?" Her hand forms into a claw and she rakes her nails down the side of his face, trying to get away from him.

"Stop, Delia." He lets another blow land, but won't let go of her wrist. "Please, stop. Listen to me." He tries to trap her other hand but she keeps it out of his reach.

"What can you say that will change anything? We could have saved Ferelden, Denerim. My friends would not have died. Alistair would be the king and Ferelden would be a better place for us all."

"Us all?" He spits the words, rejecting her premise. "You would be dead." He finally seizes her other wrist and he holds them both with one hand, pulling her closer. "I couldn't let you die. That is what they expected, what they wanted. Throw the elf to the archdemon. No one gives a shit if another elf dies. Then they make Alistair the shiny new king and everything is all wrapped up in a neat, tidy package and life goes on as it always has with a bunch of dead elves and humans congratulating each other on a job well done. New chamberpot, same shit."

"It wasn't your choice to make!" Delia shouts at him. "It was my choice. I chose to die, Zevran." She struggles hard, trying to get away from him.

"No, amore. It was our choice, but you didn't even tell me what you were planning. You left me at the gate and took the stinking dwarf instead of me. I knew what you were planning. I heard what Riordan told you both, and I heard what Morrigan proposed. Stupida!" He shakes her. "Why didn't you accept?"

"Alistair never would have done it. He hates..." she stops mid-sentence and sobs remembering that Alistair is dead, "he hated her."

Zevran slams his hand against the wall with his frustration. "You really are stupid sometimes, Del. He would have done anything you told him to do, including fucking Morrigan."

"No! Morrigan wanted to control an old god. What would have come of that?" She stops struggling and goes limp. Her body admits defeat.

He brushes his free hand across her face, through the stream of tears. "Please, cara. I had no choice. I swore to protect you. Would you have me break my word?"

She sits unmoving, her arms going limp. He gently releases her wrists and rubs them to restore the circulation. She stares down at her hands, feigning quiescence. When he leans over to cup her face in his hands, she jumps away from him, scrambling out of the bed toward the door to their room. Where she is running to, he can't imagine. They're on a ship. Part of him is afraid she means to jump overboard.

She reaches the door and yanks it open before he can reach her. It is storming and the ocean chilled air sweeps into the room, clearing away the last of her confusion from the drug. At last she knows her purpose. There is a way to clear the shame and guilt of her failure. She runs for the railing. Zevran shouts behind her, what he says she can't quite make out against the sound of the high seas. She runs for the rail, slipping once on the slick deck, but picks herself up and continues.

_The sword, the sword! Her own weapons are lost in the battle. The archdemon is struggling to move; it draws a great gasping breath and bleeds from mortal wounds. She grimaces at the heaviness of the sword, it isn't like her light, quick daggers, but she summons the strength from somewhere. Time slows and her focus narrows to the broad hilt clasped in her hands and her target ahead of her. A thought whisks through her mind: 'Zevran, remember me', but it disappears quickly and she begins to run toward the dragon. Then her consciousness is fading. 'That's it then,' she thinks and then thinks no more._

Delia is climbing over the rail when Zevran catches her. She fights him like a wild cat. She claws and twists, her shrieks swallowed up by the storm. He grips her and pulls her away from the railing, shouting at her, she can't hear him, can only see his anguished face as lightning strikes the water and illuminates him. His hair is plastered to his head and his shirt is soaked, sticking to his chest. He pulls her back and half carries her, while she kicks and flails. He pins her to the mast of the ship with his body, trying to communicate with her. She flails at him and strikes him with her hand, her nails leaving angry red weals across his face.

"Let me go! Let me go, dammit," she shrieks.

He grabs a rope from a coil sitting next to the mast and ties her hands above her head. "You will listen to me!" he shouts. She kicks at him and twists, trying to get loose, but he immobilizes her body against the mast with his own. "Listen to me!" Finally, his words pierce whatever madness has seized her and she focuses on him, even though her eyes still look like glowing black coals.

"I've lost everything I ever loved, Delia. I am not losing you." He grasps her face between his hands to force her to meet his eyes. "I am not losing you to an archdemon and I am not losing you to this." He wraps her wet hair around his hand to hold her still and kisses her. The rain pelts them both and the sky flares with lightning again. His mouth claims hers violently but she bites his lip. "Merda!" He pulls back a moment and wipes his lip. Blood mingles with rain and runs down his hand.

She sees the blood running down his chin from her bite. It hurts to hurt him, it makes her stomach twist, but it felt good too. He pulls her head back by the hair and kisses her again. She pulls his bottom lip between her teeth, about to bite again, but she can't. She lets it slide through her teeth and lets his tongue into her mouth. She can taste his blood diluted by the rain. She pulls away from his kiss and lowers her head to his neck and bites again. Hard. Not hard enough to break his skin, but hard enough to hurt. His breath hisses past her ear as he reacts to the pain, but he doesn't pull away.

He will suffer whatever penance she deems necessary, it doesn't matter, just so long as there is absolution at the end. He offers his neck to her again and she bites again, this time it isn't so hard. With every bite, she sobs, as though hurting him hurts herself. Finally, the biting stops and he kisses her again and rubs himself against her. Her sob turns into a moan and she arches into him.

His shirt, the one she is wearing, is plastered to her skin. She has nothing underneath it. Her small, firm breasts are clearly outlined against the sodden fabric. He pulls her head back, watching the rain fall on her face and mixing with her tears. Her neck is a slim, graceful column and beckons him. He keeps her head tilted back and her neck exposed. His own teeth are careful, gentle with her delicate skin. His bites are tender, not meant to hurt. She moans as his attention shifts to the elegant tips of her ears. One of her legs comes up from the deck of the ship to his waist and she thrusts against him, the invitation is unmistakable.

"This, cara. This is why I won't let you die." His voice is low and his breath huffs past her ear. His hands grasp the bottom of her shirt and pull the sides apart. The buttons pop off and go flying over the deck of the ship. He steals a furtive glance to see if anyone is watching them. There is only someone in the forecastle, and they can't see this far in the dark. His hands run over her breasts and she writhes against him again, her eyes are still locked to his but the anger in them is turning into something else.

"Fuck you, Zevran!" she shouts, competing with the sound of thunder. "Maker damn you." Her chest pushes into his hands as he slides his fingers over her wet skin. "Maker damn you," she whispers, "I love you."

She didn't think he would hear, the noise of the wind and sea is too loud, but he stops caressing her for a moment and moves his mouth back to her ear. "I love you, amore," he finally says in the common tongue she understands. He pulls back to watch her expression. Her anger fades from her face. Perhaps she understands now why he had to do what he did. If not now, perhaps someday she will. He slides his hands down her chest to her trousers and yanks on them, breaking the drawstring. They slide down her legs and she kicks them off.

His hand glides over her hip and then over her mound. He presses her back against the mast again with another kiss and his hand snakes between her thighs. She gasps as his finger parts her folds and finds her wet with more than just rain. Having her tied to the mast, helpless in front of him, knowing she still loves him, sends a bolt of impatient desire through him. He wants to lock her legs around him and pin her there with his cock, and he will, oh gods yes, he will.

Something of his own anger wells up, repressed for too long. Anger that she didn't tell him of her plans on that fateful day, that he had to sneak around and learn for himself. Anger that she, even now, would try to end her life.

"Cara," he whispers to her, his hot breath buffets her ear. "Know this: your life is mine. I won't let you take it." His voice seethes with his rage. "You wronged me by not telling me what you planned. I did what I had to do to fix it and I would do it again." His fingers wrap around her jaw and he turns her head so she is looking directly into his eyes. "You are mine, Delia Tabris. Never forget it." As he says this, he plunges two fingers into her core. "Never forget it."

She shudders at the intensity of his voice, the wild look in his eyes, and the two fingers probing within her. His thumb teases around her pearl and her hips dance, looking for more direct contact. He lets go of her chin and his mouth blazes a trail down her neck, to her nipples, then down her belly. His tongue swipes across her pearl and she cries out.

"I need to hear it, Delia. Promise me, never again," he says, pulling his mouth away from her. Her hips sway forward trying to reconnect. Something unintelligible comes from her mouth, but it isn't what he wants to hear. He holds her hips steady. "Delia, Promise me!"

There is a stroke of lightning and it illuminates her. Rain is rolling down her chest, her hair is plastered to her face and neck, her head is lolling back and her lips are open. The immensely loud thunder follows the lightning and he hears her scream, trying to be heard over it. "I promise. I am yours." She looks down into his eyes and he sees she is truly present, grounded in the moment, for once not dwelling in those terrible moments on the roof of Fort Drakon.

His mouth returns to her cleft and he sucks at her pearl while his two fingers thrust within her and curl, just so, finding the spot that makes her writhe. By the clenching of her thighs and the flexing of her walls, he knows he has brought her over the edge. The sky lights up again with lightning and he can see her body straining, back arching, rain pouring over her pale skin as she climaxes. The rolling thunder follows and as it diminishes, she sags back against the mast, her breath coming in pants.

Zevran stands up and unties her arms. She loosens the ties on his pants and grasps his erection. "Are you mine?" she asks him, her fingers stroking along his length, her thumb rubbing against the drop of fluid at the top.

"I am your man," he says roughly. He scoops his hand under her thigh and wraps her leg around his waist. "Without reservation." He kisses her bruisingly, crushing her lips beneath his. "This I swear," he murmurs against her lips while he thrusts within her.

She wraps her other leg around him and both her arms about his neck. His weight presses her back into the mast, and he thrusts, slowly, deliberately, hard. She rolls her hips to meet him, a gasp torn from her each time. The storm is whipping the furled sails, her open shirt flapping, and their wet hair flying in the wind. The violence of the storm covers any moans or shrieks of pleasure and lends its elemental fury to their passion.

Delia grinds against him, chanting his name while he tightens his grip on her hips. She throws her head back and utters one last long drawn-out cry as her legs clench around his waist and her sheath spasms around him. Zevran pins her to the mast and drives into her a few more times. He announces his release with a throaty shout and a last violent thrust into her.

She holds him, her arms looped around his neck, while unwrapping her legs from around him. She is uncertain she can support her own weight, but he holds her up with an arm wrapped around her waist. She clutches her shirt closed with one hand and Zevran yanks up his trousers, grabs her discarded ones, and they walk back to their cabin.

The storm blows itself out as they dry off and crawl into bed and talk, really talk for the first time. Delia is just an elf again, no longer saddled with an obligation set upon her by a broth of blood and magic she was forced to drink to escape shemlen justice. He is no longer a Crow, a slave, a whoreson, or bound by an oath that saved his life. What bound them together now was something entirely different.

They never spoke of the events of that night atop Fort Drakon again.

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

Vaffanculo – Fuck it!

Tesora – Dear

Dolce – Sweet

Dormigliona – Sleepyhead

Non importa – It doesn't matter

Mia dea della morte – My goddess of death

Perdonami – Forgive me

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>Story is a fulfillment of a k-meme prompt:

_ F!Warden wakes up disoriented on a ship. Zevran faked her death and kidnapped her instead of losing her to duty. Angry sex happens._

My thanks to Zevgirl for beta-reading!

I love hearing your feedback! Please review, if you would.


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